Silence fell between them unbroken save by the soft sounds of summer, the humming of the honey-bees, the murmur of the mulberry leaves stirred by a light wind. Mademoiselle sat looking vacantly at her new slippers, while the shoemaker still knelt on one knee watching her face with that pathetic expression in his eyes that we see only in the look of sufferers. “That was not all I saw at the fair,” he went on at last. “In the tent there was also--” Rosaline made a gesture of disgust. “I will hear no more!” she cried indignantly. “This will not horrify you, mademoiselle,” he replied gently; “’tis only the story of my new guest.” Her face relaxed, partly because she saw that she had hurt the hunchback’s feelings. “Well, you may tell me,” she said reluctantly. “There was a young man there--in that tent-- Nay, mademoiselle, I will say nothing more of it.” Le Bossu broke off, and then went on carefully: “He was in great anguish, and I saw that he was watched by a wicked old woman and one of the dragoons. I got him away to my house, and there I found he had no money, except one piece, and was in great trouble. He is--” the cobbler looked about keenly at the hedges, then he lowered his voice, “a Huguenot.” “And what did you do with him?” Rosaline demanded eagerly. “He is in my upper room now,” replied the hunchback, “but I do not know where he will go. He is not safe in Nîmes. I think he wants to join the Barbets, but, of course, he tells me nothing. He is a gentleman, mademoiselle, le Bossu knows, and very poor, like many of the Huguenots, and proud. I know no more, except that he was reckless enough to tell me his name.” “What is it?” she asked, all interest now, and more than ever forgetful of her new slippers. “François d’Aguesseau,” he answered, in an undertone, with another cautious glance behind him. “’Tis all very strange,” remarked mademoiselle, regarding the worn face thoughtfully. “You are a good Catholic, Charlot, yet you imperil yourself to shelter a Huguenot.” “The risk to me is very little,” he replied with great simplicity. “I am too humble for M. de Bâville, and how could I give him up? He is a kind young man, and in trouble; ah, mademoiselle, I also have had troubles. May the _bon Dieu_ forgive me if I do wrong.” “I do not think you do wrong, Charlot,” she said gently, “and I am sure the _bon Dieu_ forgives you; but M. de Bâville will not.” “I can die but once, mademoiselle,” he rejoined smiling. “Why is it you always smile at death?” she asked. “Ah, mademoiselle, you are not as I am,” he said quietly. “Death to me--the gates of Paradise stand open--suffering over--poverty no more!” Tears gathered in Rosaline’s blue eyes. “Do you suffer much now?” she asked. “Nearly always,” he replied. Again there was a painful silence. Then le Bossu recollected the slippers and rearranged the rosettes. “They fit like gloves, mademoiselle,” he said calmly, “do they give you comfort?” The girl roused herself.